


Murphy's Law of Becoming Archon

by tinyfierce



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Adoribull - Freeform, Bromance, Humor, M/M, Sarcasm, Tevinter, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-11
Updated: 2015-12-11
Packaged: 2018-05-06 04:19:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5402765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinyfierce/pseuds/tinyfierce
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nothing is ever easy when planning a major event, a coronation most of all. Politics aside, there are a thousand things to get done: seating charts, floral arrangements, avoiding murder - and the more there is to do, the more chances for things to go awry. It's everything Archon Pavus can do not to tear his hair out. </p><p>(Written for the DA Reverse Big Bang Challenge on tumblr.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Murphy's Law of Becoming Archon

**A/N:** Written for the Dragon Age Reverse Big Bang challenge on Tumblr! My art partner was Refinition, and already posted [the accompanying art](http://tinyfierce.tumblr.com/post/134988537776/dragon-age-reverse-big-bang-challenge) – it's a gorgeous portrait. Seriously, go look!

  
When I signed up, I got my first choice – a portrait of Dorian as the archon. I'd never written Dorian extensively before but love him to death, so I thought it would be a great chance to flex my writing muscles, never mind that Maevaris is a glorious land-mermaid I'll take any opportunity to write. Also, I got to throw in a bunch of cameos, which always makes me happy. =)

  
Enjoy!

* * *

**  
Minrathous**

**12 th Ferventis**

**37 Days Until Coronation**  
  
_Grey._

Dorian lifted his chin, turning his head slowly to the left and right as he kept his stare firmly fixed to a single offending hair just by his right temple. With every movement, light caught along the thick strand and traveled lengthwise in a smooth, gleaming arc. It silently mocked him from its secure position in the sea of glossy black.

He frowned, considering his course of action. While he wanted nothing more than to erase the undeniable, miserable sign of his aging, the old adage that plucking a grey hair only caused two to grow in its place gave him pause.  
  
It wasn't aging, he told himself as he reached up with one gloved hand to smooth it down in an attempt to camouflage it amongst its fellows. Many factors encouraged the blighted things to pop up: poor sleeping hours, stress, near-death experiences, and being Tevinter while romantically involved with a Qunari. His life of late had been filled with all manner of these, so much so that he should have been surprised at finding only one.

Still, there was no way such an impudent upstart would be allowed to stay. He was musing on the way to best remove it when a sharp voice called him from behind.

“You've been staring for nearly twenty minutes,” Maevaris chided as she crossed the room. “Not so unusual for you, except the meeting that _you_ called is convening in a matter of moments.”  
  
Magister Tilani had been an invaluable asset since the very first moments he had spent returned to his homeland, perhaps even before. She had contacted the Inquisition through Varric – her cousin-in-law, a thought that still gave him headaches if pondered too deeply – to offer her assistance and information about the Venatori. In return, they had provided her with protection, connections, and most importantly, a new like-minded ally in Dorian.  
  
Together they had formed the _Lucerni_ party, though neither could have predicted the explosive success of such a radical ideology. The amount of support they had received was mind-boggling, though the violent opposition was far less so. Resistance had been strong, vociferous, and more often than not life-threateningly dangerous. Still, one thing Dorian had learned from his time in the Inquisition was that momentum was hardest to stop when it had a single beacon to guide it, and so had been thrust into the spotlight as a representative of the movement. Reform had been their war cry, and those that rallied behind them had taken the Imperium by storm.

Two blinks of an eye and here he was, about to step into a role he had never imagined even _wanting_ .  
  
“May I remind you, Maevaris,” he said, adjusting the collar on his mantle, “that is is considered poor form to rush the Archon elect.” He smirked, glancing at her through his reflection. “Besides, the common man would positively _faint_ if they knew how many hours _you_ spend on that face of yours every morning.”  
  
“ _I wake up like this_ ,” she issued flatly, crossing her arms over her trademark dragon leather and steel bodice. “And while I agree with you that appearance is everything, I'm afraid that I'll have to insist you either take the mirror with you to the meeting or come to some sort of a decision on that poor hair.”

He frowned then, turning away from his reflection to stare at her in disbelief. “You _knew?_ ”  
  
“It's been there since yesterday.”  
  
“And you said nothing. Not a word!”

She closed the distance between him, an amused smirk wound across her immaculately-painted lips as she reached up to adjust his collar. “My late husband Thorold went grey at the temples and chin before he was thirty-five,” she informed him calmly, tapping him on the nose with one delicate fingertip. “It makes you look _stately._ ”  
  
Dorian turned back to the mirror with an irritated huff, ignoring her chuckle as he fussed at the serpentine toggle at the base of his throat.

“The _meeting,_ Dorian,” she reminded, and the _clack_ of her boots on the polished floor echoed with every step she took toward the door.

If she smelled the acrid flash of burned hair as soon as her back was turned or noticed the grey strand conspicuously gone when he did make his appearance, she made no mention of it.  
  
****

* * *

**15** **th** **Ferventis**

 **34 Days Until Coronation**  
  
“I don't know what's in these things, but I can't stop eating them.”  
  
Eve popped another miniature tart into her mouth with her good hand, brushing the crumbs off on her leathers. She was wearing finely-made but otherwise nondescript clothing, her former title of Inquisitor making it all the more necessary to blend in, even in the relatively far-removed Minrathous.

“Some kind of imported cheese, made from giant beasts in the Anderfels,” Dorian muttered from his slumped position in an embroidered armchair. “ _Insultingly_ expensive. Their name escapes me.”  
  
“The beasts or the tarts?”

“Either. Both.” He sighed. “Call for Trevon if you need more; he'll attend you until you make yourself sick.”  
  
At his name, the manservant began to approach the chaise, but Eve held up a wrought-metal hand to stop him. “Thanks, but I should probably keep from spoiling my appetite this close to dinner.”

As she lowered the attachment, Dorian straightened somewhat and regarded her newest model with keen interest. “It may look rather ghoulish, but that contraption is a _marvel._ ”

Smiling, she made a show of flexing her artificial fingers. “Dagna's a genius. They keep getting lighter and more responsive, but I told her to cut back on the lyrium – and the unnecessary upgrades. For example.” She pointed to her upper forearm, indicating an engraved panel. When she pressed a button beside it, the trapdoor popped open, and a series of magnifying glasses, small blade, wine corkscrew, thimble, and some unrecognizable tool sprang out in an odd sort of fan arrangement.

They both stared at it in silence.

“I don't even know what all of these _do,_ ” Eve lamented, gently trying to cram them all back in. “But I appreciate the thought, I suppose.” As the latch clicked shut, she tightened the buckle across her shoulder and reached for her satchel. “Anyway, the report.”  
  
This was the order of the day, and her purpose in Minrathous. It may have looked like a diplomatic visit for the former Inquisitor to be calling on the future Archon to bestow her blessings, but she had one particular advantage that he did not: pointed ears and limited notoriety. As a prominent national figure, Dorian couldn't move about the lower classes or former slaves without being recognized and arousing suspicions, but Eve was perfect: an unmarked elf, a mage, and – perhaps most importantly – _very_ experienced at recruiting all sorts into her causes. She had eagerly agreed to the favor he asked, and had been serving as his ears to the ground for the last few weeks.

As she shuffled about in her bag with her right hand, Dorian leaned over the table to run his fingers over her artificial left, marveling under his breath. “Lyrium vapor in piping. _Extraordinary_.”

“Hey!” Eve swatted his hand away. “Focus.” She held up a thick sheaf of parchment, ink hastily scrawled and smudged on both sides. “I have good news and bad news.”

He eyed the closest set of papers warily, noting that the top left corners were torn and stained with what looked suspiciously like blood. As he leaned back in his chair, he gestured to them lazily. “The bad news, I suppose.”

“Actually, that's the _good_ news.” At Dorian's skeptical expression, Eve smirked. “Don't worry, the blood's not from any of ours. Still want it?”  
  
The future Archon crossed his legs, picked up his wineglass, and braced himself. “ _Surprise_ me.”

“Well,” Eve began, “Magister Lagnarius' entire household staff has revolted, and he holds you personally responsible.”

“What, _all_ of them?” Dorian frowned – the Lagnarius family holdings were one of the largest within the city limits, and well-established as an exemplar of ultimate luxury and old-world glory. Such an estate needed a staff of at least fifty to operate in the _off_ season, never mind when the family was in town. “I had not a finger in that whatsoever, I assure you. Maevaris would have had my head for it – she's been working on him for _ages_.”

“Not directly, no.” Eve leaned back into the cushions. “But they were slaves before they were emancipated - the law you and Maevaris very publicly spearheaded, remember? And in Lagnarius' opinion, freed slaves made weak servants, labor laws made them soft, and their ridiculous antics could have easily been dealt with in the old ways.”

“The 'old ways,'” Dorian muttered as he sipped his wine. “Meaning execute an arbitrary dozen or so as an example, and terrify the rest into blissful submission.”  
  
“So I'd assume.” She moved on to the second, slightly bloodied half of the report, artificial limb clicking almost musically as the joints and gears moved. “Now, on to the good news. Everyone who wanted out, we got out. The safehouse near the southeastern highway gates was already waiting for us when we got there.”

“And the wards?”  
  
“Those too. Active and ready to go off if Lagnarius or someone in his pocket so much as _sneezes_ near the complex.”

“Good.” That the system was still in place and working well was a relief – one of the first orders of business the Lucerni had had to sort when the slaves were first freed was a way to protect the most likely victims of the resulting backlash. Through some truly bizarre cooperation, a network of safehouses had been established throughout the city, opening their doors to any in need of shelter from their former masters. Happily, their workload had diminished greatly since the first days of emancipation, but their caretakers still kept sharp eyes on the streets.  
  
“I spent a few days there to oversee the transition,” Eve continued, “removing brands, finding families, that sort of thing. Needless to say, they were all _very_ eager to share every intimate detail about Lagnarius, his household – anything they could think of.” Her face brightened as she passed over a thick sheaf of what appeared to be testimonies, some even illustrated in a few places. “If you need to know which officials he bribed or the names and addresses of all of his illegitimate children, they're happily at your service.”

“Now _that_ is the best news I've had all week!” He smiled broadly, casually leafing through the pages upon pages of damning material he now had in his possession. “I _knew_ there was a reason I invited you. You are a wonder, my dear - marvelous work, truly.”

Grinning, she reached for her own wineglass. “These are _your_ systems,” she pointed out, “ _your_ laws. I might have done the dirty work, but you laid the foundation. To a lot of these former slaves, you're a hero.”

Sighing, Dorian was unable to hide the warm smile as it spread across his face, the reassurance from an old friend a much-needed validation in his moments of doubt. “I suppose I am, aren't I?”

They toasted to that.

* * *

**16** **th** **Ferventis**

**33 Days Until Coronation**

Dorian frowned down at the blackened pile of limbs currently leeching the smell of burned flesh into his study's Antivan carpet.

“And who is this one from?”  
  
Maevaris stepped over the body, bending at the waist to delicately pluck a small sheet of pristine stationery from the remnants of its chest. “Magister Figrene,” she read aloud, utterly unfazed. “He 'respectfully declines' your kind invitation.”  
  
“Well,” he began drolly, “at least I won't have to pretend to tolerate him at the banquet.”

The trend of RSVPing to the coronation by pinning notes to charred corpses had started a full month earlier, no doubt started by one of his more melodramatic detractors. If they intended to frighten or intimidate him, they would be sorely disappointed; he had instructed his staff to simply deliver them as they would any normal message, though they had dispensed with the silver serving trays.  
  
“Poor wretch,” Dorian murmured as he cast his gaze over the unrecognizable remains. The vehicle for the message had almost certainly been a slave, though they might have been elf, human, male, female – anything distinctive had been burned off. “Tell Trevon to notify the midcity Chantry. A proper burial and service, as with the others.”

Maevaris obligingly rang the summoning bell on his desk, leaning back against it gracefully as they waited. “Any other magister would have simply dumped it in the canal, you know.”  
  
“My dear Maevaris, when have I _ever_ been typical?”  
  
She chuckled, crossing her arms. “Varric would certainly be pleased to hear about this. He insists that you may turn out to be 'not _that_ awful.'”  
  
Dorian groaned. “I beg you, no. Don't tell that dwarf _anything_ \- not unless you want it to end up in print.”  
  
Maevaris smiled, but promised nothing.  
  
****

* * *

**19** **th** **Ferventis**

**30 Days Until Coronation**

“Tell me,” Dorian said calmly, fury tightly-leashed and pressing at the seams. “What _exactly_ am I looking at?”  
  
Eve stifled a laugh behind her good hand as the poor messenger nervously looked back and forth between the future Archon and the package he had been commissioned to deliver. “I-It's your official coronation portrait, Your Excellency. Arrived from Val Royeaux this morning.”

Sure enough, his own face stared back at him from the canvas, meticulously painted with careful strokes and a discerning eye. The larger-than-life painting stretched nearly the full height of a wall and was framed in glossy black lacquer so as to match the décor of the hallway in which the Archon's portraits were traditionally hung.  
  
“I'm well aware,” Dorian seethed, “but what are _those?”_

'Those' being, of course, a pair of rosy pink nugs settled happily in the lower left and right quarters of the painting.

The messenger paled, sweat beading on his forehead. “N-nugs, Your Excellency?”

“Nugs. _Nugs!_ ” Dorian paced in front of it, swearing colorfully in both languages. “ _Kaffas._ Of _course_ she would do something like this! 'Servant of the Divine,' my shapely backside.”  
  
Traditionally, the Tevinter Divine – or the Black Divine, as he was colloquially known – would commission the portrait of the new Archon, but as Dorian was currently _very_ much on the outs with said high cleric on a number of issues (including but not limited to the Tevinter chantry's rather unflattering views on slavery, women, and nonhuman devotees), Divine Victoria had offered. Naively, Dorian had accepted, and counted it as one less thing he had had to take care of over the last few months.

Now he regretted giving Leliana any creative control over the piece – it seemed that she had used her own pet nugs as models, insofar as he could tell the blasted creatures apart.  
  
Snouts upturned in beady-eyed contentment, Schmooples III and Princess Honeyblossom reclined with plush velvet ribbons around their necks, crowns of gold leaves nestled between their ears. Hanging delicately from the former's mouth was a relief of the Imperial crest, serpent glinting in the soft glow that the artist had taken great care to render. Honeyblossom, seated on the right, had one disturbingly human-looking paw on the royal scepter at his side.

And portrait-Dorian didn't seem to think anything odd about the arrangement whatsoever.

“It's a good likeness,” Eve observed, stepping closer to inspect it. “They even put your mole on the right side.”

Dorian spun on his heel, mantle whipping about his shoulders as he stalked over to her. “Did you somehow miss the _giant filthy rodents_ ruining my legacy?” He sighed theatrically as he turned to stare at the offending artwork again. “This, Inquisitor. This is what future generations will see as they walk down the Hall of Archons.” He straightened, gesturing limply to his likeness. “'And this, children, is Archon Pavus, most handsome and beloved of the modern rulers. He freed the slaves, transformed the country, and redeemed mages in the eyes of Thedas – but most importantly, _he loved nugs_.”

Eve offered him a sympathetic smile, hands on her hips. “For what it's worth, I think it makes you look _very_ regal.”

“I _always_ look regal,” he managed, “but thank you all the same.”

Slowly, as Schmooples' lifeless eyes mocked him from the painting, he dragged his palms down the length of his face in exasperation. He had one month to recommission a portrait of himself appropriate enough to represent his reign and immortalize him properly in history. Wall-sized. While he thwarted multiple conspiracies and planned the social event of the century.

Merciful Andraste help him.

* * *

**22** **nd** **Ferventis**

 **27 Days Until Coronation**  
  
Dorian looked up from his desk as his manservant stood at attention, clearing his throat.

“Yes?”  
  
“Lieutenant Cremisius Aclassi to see you, Your Excellency.”  
  
“Ah, right. Show him in.”

The servant excused himself, and a few moments later, the heavy doors carefully creaked open.  
  
“ 'Scuse me,” Krem called as he stepped in, thumbing over one shoulder. “FancyTrousers back there said it was all right to come in.”

“You must be referring to Trevon, though FancyTrousers _does_ have a nice ring to it. Please.” Dorian gestured to the armchairs opposite him, and Krem sat down amid the creaking of leather and armor.

“Chief said this place was fancy,” he said, glancing around at the marble floors and expensive furnishings. “No wonder he stays down at the tavern.”  
  
Dorian couldn't have agreed with Bull's decision more – the Qunari hadn't looked more out of place in his life than the few short hours he'd spent in the palace. Once was quite enough, both for him _and_ the staff, and the Chargers had taken a set of rooms at one of the loudest, least-magical taverns in the city. It catered mostly to servants and Soporati, and that was one of the major points of his regular meetings with the Tevinter-national-turned-mercenary, though Dorian's increasing time constraints called for them to meet in the office today.

“The surveys,” Dorian prodded, “were you successful? How many did you speak to?”  
  
“Anyone who would talk to me,” Krem answered, a small note of pride resonating in his sandpapered voice. “Got at least three hundred. Handed them off when I walked in.”  
  
“Excellent. And how were you received?”  
  
Amused, the shorter man gave him a half-grin. “You mean your plan to send a fellow Soporati to do your 'just how unhappy are you' check-in? Not bad, actually.” He reached up with one armored hand to scratch his cheek absentmindedly. “Helps that I left your name out of it. Far as they know, the Lucerni party is just looking for more fights to pick with the magisters, and that was enough to get them talking.”

“And _talking_ is precisely what we need.” He leaned back in his chair thoughtfully. “How many more do you think you could convince to participate?”

“Soporati? As many as you want, I'd say.” He crossed his arms and smirked. “Thanks to your official pardon for 'services rendered the magisterium,' I'm respectable now. People claiming to be distant relatives suddenly crawling out of the woodwork since word got out that I'm a _personal_ friend of Magister Pavus.”  
  
“Isn't it _funny_ how that works,” Dorian drawled, picking disdainfully at a bit of lint on his sleeve. “How _is_ your family? The ones that don't need a pedigree chart to prove their relation, that is.”

“Paid my father's debts first thing,” Krem began. “He's a free man again. Even got a job at a fancy tailor shop - they needed the extra workers now that everyone's buying fancy clothes for your coronation. Might be for only a few months, but it's a good start and good coin.”

“And your mother?”  
  
“Probably wouldn't recognize me if she passed me on the street.”

The look on his face told Dorian everything he needed to know about _that_ relationship, and something in the realization struck a chord.

 _Ah,_ he thought to himself, _what monsters our parents make of us._

“Her loss,” he declared after a moment. “You're a fine young man.”  
  
The tension in the air broke as Krem sat upright, holding his hands up defensively. “Whoa,” he protested, grin spread wide across his face. “No offense, but I don't swing that way. You keep that up, and I'll have to tell the Chief.”

“ _Please_ ,” Dorian replied, corners of his mouth ticking up in a smile. “Try getting a proper haircut before you even _attempt_ to throw yourself at me.”  
  
That earned him a chuckle, and Krem relaxed back into his usual slightly off-kilter slouch. “Been thinking of looking her up.” He paused, and when he spoke again, Dorian could feel the genuine curiosity behind his question. “How'd it work out for _you_?”

It wasn't something he hadn't asked himself a hundred times, and more often of late. This once, he thought, he could force honesty out of his mouth instead of deflecting with humor – the man could stand to hear it.

“You know,” he said slowly, “I'm still not sure.”

“That's fair. Still,” Krem pointed out, “you're going to be Archon. He'd be proud.”

“ _Ugh_ ,” Dorian groaned theatrically, slumping deep into his chair. “Don't _remind_ me. And now that you so very graciously _have_ , I need a drink. Or several, if I'm being quite honest.” He called for Trevon, who was at his side in an instant.

“Wine,” he instructed. “Whatever's strongest and most appropriate for an afternoon of banishing one's past into the abyss.” He lifted his chin as he looked to Krem, who offered a half-smirk and shrugged.

“Two glasses.”

  
****

* * *

**25** **th** **Ferventis**

**24 Days Until Coronation**

His nose itched, and it was driving him positively _mad._

Dorian sat on a dais in the middle of a reception room repurposed as an atelier while his emergency portrait was being painted. During the secondary drawing phase, when the solid lines were being laid down, he had been given explicit instructions not to move a muscle. From the way the artist spoke, he would've thought it was a matter of life or death – or at least in this case, respect or ridicule, which was rather the same in Tevinter.

He'd been holding this pose for what felt like hours, and the present company was doing nothing to ease his suffering.

“Lord Pavus,” she marveled, “how _perfect_ you look in this light!”

“Thank you, Martine,” he replied, moving his mouth as little as possible. “Though I flatter myself that most light finds me perfect.”  
  
She laughed – a musical, cultivated thing – and walked out from behind the artist. “Very true.”  
  
Martine was the daughter of Magister Avriden, who had been a rather powerful ally in the Lucerni's rise to popularity. Naturally, Martine spent as much time as possible at the magisterium, attending meetings and socializing as a young woman of her status and ambitions was wont to do. She wasn't malicious, nor conniving; it was just the natural sort of thing for young, beautiful, and well-bred women to do in Minrathous.  
  
Fortunately for the future magisterium, the girl was an idealist. _Un_ fortunately for Dorian, her adoration of him only seemed to increase the more trouble he stirred. Her father encouraged the attachment – who wouldn't want their daughter married to the Archon, troublesome or no? - and so she had taken to hovering about him in every free moment.

“I heard about what happened with Magister Lagnarius' staff,” she began as she slowly circled the dais, hands folded prettily in front of her as she walked. “You guided _all_ of them to safety. Humans, elves, everyone. I couldn't believe it.”  
  
“As much as I would love to take the credit for such a dashing act of heroism,” he said, “I had help - a very talented old friend who has a personal interest in the elves' welfare.”

“Still, you stood up to him.”

Dorian looked over, and swore inwardly. Big brown eyes stared back up at him, stars and hopes and dreams practically dancing across her lashes.

Maker, not _again._

“Most other magisters would have been too afraid for their positions,” she continued excitedly, “but you did what was _right._ You promised them freedom from slavery, and lived up to that promise when it came time.” She stopped her circling, inching closer and ducking her head. “You're _incredible._ ”

He tried not to sound strangled as he let out a laugh. “My, such praise! If you insist on flattering me so, I'll be tempted to keep you around on retainer.”

“I wouldn't mind,” she replied quickly. “I'd even leave my father's house if it meant being by your side.”

“I wouldn't stand for it.” Dorian turned his gaze back to the artist, who looked as though his patience was about to snap with all of this blather. “Your father needs you. What a laughingstock he would be if he were allowed to dress himself!”  
  
Martine laughed again, smoothing her skirts. “Poor father. His taste alone would get him ejected from the magisterium.”  
  
“And we can't have that now, can we?”

“I suppose not.” She smiled at him, and Dorian could have sworn he could feel the warmth of it on his face. “Let me work on him, and I'll be all yours in no time at all.”  
  
He acknowledged her with a half-smile. “Looking forward to it.”

She excused herself with a curtsey, greeting Maevaris as she walked out. The magister continued walking into the atelier while shooting a curious glance over her shoulder.

“Was that Avriden's daughter? My, she's grown.”  
  
“Yes,” Dorian replied sharply as he straightened and re-squared his shoulders. “Charming girl. So charming, in fact, that I just might send her to Qarinius.”  
  
“Qarinius,” Maevaris repeated. “You think her father would consent to having her shipped to the other end of the Nocen sea?”  
  
“Of course. An apprenticeship to the magistrate there would make him positively _salivate_.”  
  
Crossing her arms, Maevaris smirked and leaned back against a pillar. “You're going to run out of provinces to send these girls to.”

“There's always the Free Marches,” he countered brightly. “And then eventually Ferelden, if need be.”

“You'll need to address this eventually.”

“But not today, and _that_ is the material point.” Dorian lifted his chin. “Now tell me – how does the sketch look?”

  
****

* * *

**29** **th** **Ferventis**

 **20 Days Until Coronation**  
  
Not two minutes after performing his breakfast duties, the Imperial food taster suddenly became violently ill and began throwing up colorful sludge.  
  
When informed of the development, the Iron Bull lent the kitchen staff use of Dalish for her unique talents in convincing people to tell her what she wanted to know. Ten minutes with the servant who brought the food later, and she had a name.

Dorian received word mid-afternoon that the magister responsible had been found dead in his home, discovered by his eldest son, a Lucerni-leaning young man who would inherit his father's seat in the Magisterium. He was sworn in by teatime, which passed without food- or drink-related incident.  
A new taster was hired, and by supper it was as though nothing had happened at all.

  
****

* * *

**5** **th** **Solis**

 **14 Days Until Coronation** **  
**

Dorian fought the urge to rub his temples as the migraine throbbing behind his eyes worsened.

The special session of the magisterium was entering hour three, despite it consisting of only the upper echelon – not even twenty members, though it seemed like infinitely more when all were fighting to speak at once. The issue at hand was of his own doing: since the Black Divine was committed to snubbing him at every opportunity, he was left without an official pair of hands to bestow the crown at the coronation ceremony. Naturally, it stood to reason that the task should fall to a fellow magister, but as to which one -

“...and Herridan was in Orlais for nearly _half_ of the meetings last year - ”

“For my wife's health! And both you _and_ Phrell were there for the Season, we all saw you - ”  
  
“I was fulfilling my social duties, as you well know! At least _I_ follow through on my obligations - ”  
  
“If that is meant as a jab at me, Nivinus, might I remind you of the First Day incident where you - ”  
  
“Oh, come off it, Felarin. We all had too much to drink, and you were no Chantry brother yourself.”  
  
“I was the model of respectability and decorum. As I will be when _I bestow the crown._ ”  
  
“Over my rotting corpse!”  
  
“ _If necessary, Ilgrus!_ ”

As they squabbled, Dorian sighed, letting his head hit the back of his elevated chair with a soft _thunk_ . “ _Kaffas_ ,” he muttered to Maevaris, who was seated beside him, nonchalantly plucking grapes from a cheese platter. “Can't I just put the blasted thing on my own head and be done with it?”

“We're breaking tradition enough as it is,” she reminded him. “It's the least you can do.”  
  
The crown jewels, including the Archon's coronet, were suspended in an ever-burning magical fire that only a mage could reach through with impunity. If he was worthy – or rather, powerful – enough, the crown could be taken without issue. Though at this point, he might have preferred being set on fire.  
  
“Tell me: how long am I to be tortured until we break for supper?”

“Two hours.”  
  
The idea of enduring another minute of this, never mind a number of hours – or perhaps even days, knowing the magisterium – was enough to grant Dorian a second wind. He straightened, smoothed his hair back into place, and cleared his throat. As was due his station, the room fell blessedly silent.

“As some of you may know,” and they _did_ know, because they would have all bribed his tailor weeks ago, “my own mantle for the coronation will have a number of Nevarran pheasant feathers. I do hope none of you have made the same unfortunate choice, as they are rather quick to catch light – I believe you recall the Feastday incident with Magister Victrian's hat?”

The silence was deafening as everyone present clearly remembered the sight of the exceedingly tall magister's plumed hat bursting into flames simply from standing too near a torch. That hadn't stopped those particular feathers from being _en vogue_ that year, however, and the dyes used to tint them only made them all the more flammable as they became all the more popular.  
  
After a moment, one of the younger members to Dorian's right motioned to his servant, who reached forward to cover the house's crest plaque with a white cloth – he was abstaining.

“House Vyren withdraws their suit to bestow the crown,” he announced, and Dorian acknowledged him with a nod before turning back to the rest of the room.

“Any others?”  
  
Over the next few minutes, it was made obvious who had taken their coronation finery notes from the Archon's outfit, as more and more crests were sheathed in white. At first, narrowing the pool was a relief...  
  
...until all was said and done, and not a single plaque remained.

Sitting upright in alarm, Dorian stared around the room in disbelief. “What, _all_ of you?”

“Phrell should do it,” one of the magisters across the room declared. “I've _seen_ the design for his coat – he'd be better off starting over.”  
  
“I'll have you know,” Phrell countered, “that that coat was designed by the same tailor who made my wife's wedding clothes, and those were the talk of Minrathous for _weeks_!”  
  
“Then he should design you a gown, and it would still be an improvement.”  
  
“And what of you, Nivinus? Burning anything you choose would be doing us all a favor.”  
  
“I sent away for those feathers weeks ago! I won't be changing a single thread on it, not one.”  
  
“Weeks? I special-ordered my feathers from Nevarra City _months_ ago. Who's going to compensate me for them? You?”  
  
“Oh, come off it, Ilgrus. Everyone knows you just plucked them from your own pheasants – dye can't cover that up!”  
  
As the bickering suddenly shifted from who would have the privilege of bestowing the crown to who would be _made_ to do it, Dorian's headache was back with a vengeance, and any hopes of ending the pointless squabble at a reasonable hour were dashed to bits. He slumped against the back of his chair, massaging his temples as the insults and accusations were hurled across the room like toddlers throwing toys.  
  
The streaming roar of argument was finally interrupted by a few _knock_ s and the delicate clearing of a throat. One by one, the other magisters stopped yelling and sat back down as Maevaris' elven servant quietly tugged the cloth away from her family crest, indicating her reentering the bid.

“House Tilani will concede, if only to stop all of this nonsense,” she said as she folded her arms over her chest. “My gown is in for a fitting to have the sleeves tightened – I'll send word for him to remove the feathers on them up to my shoulders, if the Archon finds that sufficient.”

Every set of eyes in the room turned to said Archon, the promise of a resolution and not having to alter their own painstakingly-designed and ludicrously expensive clothes hanging in the air.

“I accept,” Dorian announced flatly. “Does the magisterium hear any objections?”  
  
The few seconds of silence that passed seemed to tick by far too slowly, and when no protests came, the matter was settled.

“It is decided,” he declared. “Magister Tilani will present the crown.”  
  
A powerful sense of relief washed over the room, and as satisfied chatter began to pass among the council, Dorian spared a warm smirk for Maevaris.

“Archon Pavus is _eternally_ grateful for your sacrifice,” he simpered, and Maevaris chuckled.

“It's for the best, really,” she replied, tapping a fan to her perfectly-painted lips. “I wouldn't want to outshine the Archon at his own coronation.”  
  
Dorian hid his smile behind one hand as he turned back to observe the room.

“You are too magnanimous, my dear.”

  
****

* * *

**11** **th** **Solis  
** **8 Days Until Coronation**

“Split! Right down the back!”

Dorian angrily held up the embroidered jacket, which had once been a very attractive piece of finery. “How in Andraste's namedid you manage _this_? And a week before the ceremony!”

Bull shrugged from his lounging position on the bed. “The shoulders were too tight. Damn thing would've been hard to fight in, anyway.”  
  
Throwing the ruined garment aside, Dorian looked to the far corner of the room. On a wooden stand, the new pants he had had made for his qunari lover were blessedly immaculate.  
  
“At least the trousers are still in one piece,” he sighed. “And fitted instead of those ridiculous striped numbers you usually stomp about in.”  
  
“I _like_ those,” Bull mused thoughtfully. “Make my ass look nice. And at least if they split and the Vints get a show, you'll be the envy of Minrathous.”  
  
Dorian groaned loudly, batting aside Bull's massive hand as it reached for his backside. “You,” he muttered, “are _impossible._ I'm sending the tailor over first thing in the morning, and _don't_ greet this one in the nude. Understood?”

“Perfectly.”

“Good.” He crossed his arms, pouting impressively in the fire's low light. “Now fuck me senseless, as I've had an _awful_ day.”  
  
He ignored Bull's smug chuckle as he was pulled onto the bed, indulging in that familiar warmth as the tension in his shoulders began to melt away.

* * *

**15** **th** **Solis**

 **4 Days Until Coronation**  
  
No one should have been surprised.  
  
Assassination attempts were to be expected, even for the most popular of political figures. Still, Dorian had long since stopped counting. It had never really kept him awake at night, and even then, those particular fears weren't anything a glass or two of something strong couldn't chase away.

It was less than a week until the coronation, and no one should have been surprised.  
  
Dorian was out walking with a small retinue. It was nothing much, just a turn about the palace gardens to enjoy the midmorning warmth as servants toddled behind with large parasols. They rounded a row of perfectly-manicured hedges, admiring the tiny buds that peppered the foliage, when a stout figure launched at them from the next corner. All Dorian could make out was a loud cry and the flash of steel, and he acted on instinct alone.

He wasn't the only one. In that same instant, half a dozen magisters' worth of magic hurled at the would-be assailant, more than enough to render anything less than an Ogre severely incapacitated – or worse. 'Worse' seemed to be the result, as blood streamed from the corpse and residual magic crackled in arcs and webs across the skin.

It had been a dwarf, he could see that much. A young woman – girl, really – with brands across her cheeks and beads braided into her hair.  
  
Maevaris immediately pointed out that casteless dwarves couldn't have belonged to the Orzammar delegation in the city, and this was likely Carta or a simple mercenary. Besides, the Dwarven dignitaries very publicly and strongly threw their support behind Dorian, so this was a personal attack; an opportunity, not a statement.

Her words should have been a comfort. As should those from among his retinue, who congratulated themselves for quick wits and sharp instincts. Another half-second and she might have landed a blow. What if those blades were tainted with poison? What if she were holding grenades? Yes, yes – very lucky, very lucky indeed.

Dorian wasn't especially well-studied when it came to dwarves, but he knew children, and the assassin whose body he stood over hadn't been more than a child. She looked much like any twelve- or thirteen-year old human would, features still soft and rounded and _young_.

A burn seared the leather of her clothes and scarred most of one cheek, fusing the hilts of her daggers to the skin of her hands. He had been the only one to use fire, he recalled as a flurry of servants expediently removed her remains from sight and tended to the grass where they had been.  
  
No one should have been surprised, and indeed, 'surprised' wasn't the word Dorian would have chosen when he drank an entire bottle of wine before bed that night.  
  
****

* * *

**17** **th** **Solis**

 **Two Days Before Coronation** **  
  
** “If Your Excellency could turn just a bit more to the left.”  
  
Dorian obliged, shifting on the dais while maintaining his pose and expression. These sittings might have been mind-numbingly boring, but even as such, they were a welcome relief from most of his other obligations. He was almost disappointed that they were very nearly finished; the artist was down to the final touches of gold and lighting, and Dorian's already-rare hours of quiet would become even more so.

These were the moments that his thoughts caught up to him, and more often that not, brought with them the memories of every decision he had recently made, every hand he'd shaken, every signature. Each insisted upon being reexamined, analyzed, and pored over repeatedly.  
  
He'd reached the point where merely sitting in silence was exhausting, and the prospect very nearly terrified him.

“Hey.”  
  
A familiar and wholly unexpected – but not unwelcome – voice carried through the atelier. Bull stood in the doorway, holding a satchel.

“Bull!” He couldn't deny the man's talent for timing. “You're... in the _palace_? To what cosmic occurrence do I owe this honor?”

The qunari raised the satchel, and Dorian heard the rustling of papers. “More of those surveys from Krem. He's busy, didn't want to hand them off to a messenger – and I was tired of sitting around.”  
  
“Ah, I see.” Dorian turned to the painter. “You may take an hour's recess. My servants will see to refreshments and anything you may need.”  
  
“Thank you, Your Excellency.” He stood and excused himself with a bow, and the moment he was out of earshot, Dorian's posture collapsed into rubbish.

“My wretched _back_ ,” he whined. “This whole portrait business is dreadfully tiring.”  
  
“Art's not easy,” Bull reminded as he crossed over to a sofa against the far wall. “That shit takes time _._ ”  
  
“I know, I know.” Dorian fell into the cushions next to him, yanking the satchel onto his lap. “Still, I'm glad you overcame your aversion to good taste and came to see me. These surveys are just the thing to distract me right n– ” He stopped short as a sheaf of blank pages spilled into his hands. “What in Andraste's name is this?”  
  
“A ruse to get me in here, and to pull you away from work.” He fixed his good eye on his lover, and Dorian could swear he was looking _through_ him whenever he did that. “Now, distract you from what? Last I saw, you were just sitting on a fancy stool.”  
  
Dorian sighed, petulantly pushing the contents of his lap into a pile on the floor. “Myself, I suppose.” He leaned back against the back of the sofa and Bull's outstretched arm. “I'm drowning, _amatus._ Every moment of every day, I'm seized with a – a crippling _dread_ and I can't _think_.”  
  
Bull shifted, pulling Dorian closer. “Talk to me.”  
  
“I have no desire to become my father,” Dorian began, and it was as though a thread had snapped and all of the thoughts weighing him down were now tumbling out of his mouth. “Obsessed with bloodlines, titles, prestige. I have to play the game, of course, but there is so much _more_ to do, to be done. Am I making things worse? I suppose I am, in a way, but such things must be done if progress is to be made. And those who will suffer from my decisions – how am I to take responsibility for them? Magisters _know_ from the moment they first enter the magisterium – from birth, one could argue - that this is to be their life, cutthroat and never-ending in its intricacies and perils, but the others? And those that have placed their faith in me, Maevaris and Eve and the Chargers and _you - ”_

He was cut off by Bull's warm mouth covering his as his free arm reached around Dorian's backside to pull him into his lap. Dorian leaned into the kiss, gloved fingers frantically grasping at his lover's jaw and nape.  
  
“And,” he continued as he pulled back, gasping, “there's a _somniari_ from Kirkwall requesting an audience, and apparently he's been here for _years_ , and there hasn't been one born in generations and _what in the name of all that is holy_ am I to do about - ”

Bull kissed him again, deeper this time, silencing his muffled protests and holding him in place.  
  
“Hey,” Bull murmured against him. “ _Breathe.”_  
  
He pulled the future Archon back in, and as he finally surrendered, Dorian sighed into the mouth claiming his. _By Andraste_ , had he needed this. Strong hands encircled his waist and hips, and the heat of the man seeped into his skin through the layers of finery between them. The entire magisterium could have walked through the door, and he wouldn't have even noticed.

A few moments later found them lounged with their limbs entwined, Bull massaging the back of Dorian's neck and the latter sighing gratefully at the sensation.

“Tell me,” he murmured. “Does it get easier?”  
  
Bull's hand didn't pause in its ministrations. “No. But you get used to it.” He moved up into Dorian's hairline, which earned him a low moan. “The day that fear is gone is the day you aren't fit to lead.”  
  
Dorian removed his gloves, draping them over the edge of the cushion as he caught Bull's other hand in his and idly traced lines of every knuckle, every scar. “Am I to spend my days _grateful_ for feeling constantly overwhelmed, then?”

“Don't let it get the best of you,” Bull rumbled. “Make it your compass and live _by_ it, not _under_.”  
  
Dorian closed his eyes and smiled, enjoying the press of Bull's thumb into the tense muscles alongside his vertebrae. “Well said, _amatus_. Perhaps I'll have it embroidered onto a cushion.”  
  
He felt the vibration of the qunari's laughter under him, and relished in the sensation. “At least this accursed portrait is almost finished,” he conceded, and Bull craned his neck to glance at the work-in-progress.

“Where's the old one?”

“Moved into storage where it will never again see the light of day,” Dorian muttered, ignoring Bull's obvious disappointment.  
  
“Damn shame.”  
  
“You've already seen it once, which was _quite_ enough.”  
  
Suddenly, the support holding him upright gave out, and Dorian fell back against Bull's chest. Both of the qunari's arms were now firmly about his waist, one hand slowly abandoning its grip to seek out a vulnerable patch of inner thigh.  
  
“Should get something nude commissioned for my room at the inn,” Bull rumbled, and Dorian could hear the grin in his voice. “Best portrait of the Archon in Thedas.”  
  
Dorian arched his back, smirking as he covered the hand threatening to make him indecent. For the first time in a long time, the voices in his head were quiet, and the simple pleasures of intimacy washed away the tension of the last few months. “For a birthday, perhaps.”  
  
Bull chuckled and _squeezed._

“I'm holding you to that, _kadan_.” _  
_

  
****

* * *

**19** **th** **Solis**

 **Coronation Day**  
  
_Breathe_ , Dorian remembered.  
  
_Walk like an Archon. Left first._  
  
The doors had been opened and stretched out in front of him was a long carpet, the dark velvet immaculate and stark against the white stone. The hum of the filled hall flooded his senses even as he hadn't yet set foot within.  
  
The formal regalia felt heavy on his shoulders. Not a hair was out of place as he began the slow walk to the coronation dais, which had been cleaned and decorated to perfection over the last few weeks. The massive bronze brazier that held the Imperium's holy flame had been brought forth, Maevaris standing in front of an upholstered stool that matched every detail in decoration. The entire upper magisterial council, he noted, were seated in a meticulous arc behind her, and were gesturing to the newly-plain sleeves of her gown disapprovingly.

 _Straight ahead_ , he reminded himself. _Don't laugh._  
  
The massive cape trailed behind him as he took each long stride forward, dragging gently on the ceremonial carpet. Fully aware of how impressive he looked, Dorian fought the urge to smirk as he reached the first set of guard.

Here, closest to the entrance, stood the lesser of his officials: the Soporati, the guild leaders, the provincial governors – and among them, he saw a number of elves, a testament to how far the Imperium had come in such a short time. The Chargers, too, had been ushered into this section of the hall, one or two attempting to crack him with subtly obscene finger gestures, for which there would be the devil to pay later.

The next were somewhat higher in rank, including diplomats and foreign delegations, as well as visiting dignitaries. The number in attendance had been a point of contention among some of the magisterium who disapproved of so many precious invitations being sent, but Dorian had insisted. As the Imperium opened itself to the world for its censure, this was an opportunity to prove their hospitality, to show them the best the Imperium had to offer. And if 'the best' happened to be him, well – who was he to argue?

Finally, as he came up on the magisters, a familiar silhouette stood out along the back wall. Bull leaned against a pillar, arms crossed as he observed the goings-on from a safe distance. He offered a lazy salute, and the corners of Dorian's mouth quirked upward, only barely hidden by his moustache.  
  
_Focus,_ he scolded himself. _Eyes ahead_.

And he was very nearly there when he heard it. Quiet, muttered, but unmistakable.

“Don't know who that knife-ear thinks she is,” sneered the magister as he passed. “Dress it in all the finery you like, an elf is still an elf.”  
  
And to his right across the aisle stood Eve, his dear friend and confidante and proud elf _,_ looking an absolute vision in silk and gold.

The proper thing, Dorian knew - the _magisterial_ thing - would be to ignore the snide comment. Elves were lesser citizens, after all, even those with magic, and he could hear his father's voice in his head, telling him that it was just the way things were. Besides, he had a crown to claim, and everyone was waiting.  
  
_Hang_ his father, he decided, and to the void with propriety. He was Dorian Pavus: beautiful, brilliant, and more than powerful enough to make this tiny man's head spin.

He stood in place and turned, interrupting his procession to stare at the offending magister. The room fell silent, and all eyes were pinned to the pair.

“Forgive me,” Dorian began calmly, “but did you just use the term 'knife-ear' in the presence of the Inquisitor?”  
  
A murmur rippled through the crowd, and the magister in question prickled. “Who might that be, Lord Pavus?”

Smiling cordially, Dorian took a step back and gestured across the aisle. “Inquistor Lavellan. Let me introduce you.” He held out a hand. “Eve, if you would?”

A matching _very_ professional and _very_ tight smile blossomed on her face as she slipped her hand into his, taking a graceful step onto the processional carpet and allowing herself to be led to his side. “Yes?”  
  
“Magister Graeme,” he began. “May I present Inquisitor Eva'nahn Lavellan, commander of the former Inquisition, special advisor to the Lucerni party, First to the Dalish, and a dear friend.” He turned to Eve, her long-practiced poise unbreakable even under such conditions. “Inquisitor Lavellan, may I present Magister Graeme. I believe he has a correction to make. ”  
  
They waited expectantly, and as every second that ticked by, the magister's face became redder and redder with humiliation and fury. When he finally spoke, his words were muttered beyond comprehension. _  
  
“_ I beg your pardon,” Dorian prompted, and the magister's head snapped up.

“I will not,” he spat, “be made to apologize to an _elf_! Especially not by the likes of you!” He pushed forward, storming onto the carpet, and the onlookers in his immediate vicinity gave him a wide berth.

Bull had disappeared from the pillar.

“You will _ruin_ everything the Imperium stands for,” he hissed accusingly. “You and your people, taking our ways of life and twisting them to your own ends and calling it _progress._ ” He spun to face his fellow magisters, jabbing a finger at Eve. “An _elf_ ,” he cried, “attending the coronation ceremony of the Imperial Archon! Elves and dwarves and I _know_ I saw a qunari skulking about!”  
  
“What's this about elves,” came a voice from behind him, and the crowd parted to show Skinner at their edge, staring daggers at Graeme – as were the collection of elves standing behind her with identical expressions on their faces.

“And dwarves,” Rocky called from her left. “Heard that, too.”

The Orzammar delegation, clad in gem-inlaid finery, had pushed their way to the front of the crowd opposite them, waiting at the edge of the carpet with equal amounts of displeasure.

“We've got Soporati here, too,” Krem added from beside his comrades. “Can't imagine you're happy about that, either.”

“You are not fit to be Archon,” Graeme growled, “and we will see you dead before you run Tevinter into the ground!”

“We?” Dorian arched one perfect eyebrow, spreading his hands. “Tell me, magister: who is this 'we' you speak of?”  
  
Realization crossed the magister's face as it occurred to him that not one person present – man, woman, fellow magister or no – had spoken up in his defense, nor voiced agreement. The berth around him had widened, and though he met the eyes of everyone who would look at him, his silent pleas for assistance were met with stony indifference.

It was _very_ clear just whom those in attendance supported, and Dorian committed the moment to memory as the expression of utter indignation on the man's face slowly shifted to terror.

“The magisterium happily considers _all_ opinions,” he informed him coolly. “If you have a formal complaint, we would welcome your letter.” He turned to resume his procession, straightening his raiment. “Do be sure to address it to 'Archon Pavus.' ”

  
He didn't so much as glance behind him as he closed the rest of the distance to the platform, though he could judge from Maevaris' entertained expression just how well Graeme's little outburst had been received.  
  
As Dorian knelt on the ceremonial stool, Maevaris recited the accompanying Tevene, anointing him with oil before turning to the enchanted brazier. The chain of office was first, and slid effortlessly into her hands as she plucked it from the fire. It was settled about his shoulders, the scepter then laid in his hands, and finally, she reached for the coronet.  
  
“ _Manaveris Archona_ ,” she announced as it left the flames, and lowered it slowly onto Dorian's waiting head.

 _Long live the Archon._  
  
He stood, and the moment he turned to face his people, the hall erupted into deafening cheers.

A strange sensation filled his chest as he let it wash over him, the loud whooping and whistles scattered among the applause only adding to the atmosphere. Maevaris stood beside him, hands folded prettily in front of her as she acknowledged the fevered crowd.

“Well done,” she said through her smile. “And _very_ much like an Archon.”

Dorian chuckled in agreement. “I'm warming to the idea.”

'Archon Pavus.'  
  
It _still_ sounded ghastly.

 

* * *

 

 **22** **nd** **Solis**

**3 Days After Coronation**

“...and I'll send over the new documents as soon as my advisors have looked them through. But I can't foresee any issues.”  
  
“Excellent.” Dorian walked his newly-acquired lyrium magnate through the main hall, keeping pace with the dwarf's shorter strides. “I speak for myself and the entire magisterium when I say how positively _thrilled_ we are at the prospect. Your organization will be a vast improvement after some rather messy troubles with the last.”  
  
The dwarf snorted, and the braids in his beard jostled in response. “My cousin Garin was a fool. He cut corners on everything from safety to purity, but the delegation overlooked it because our great-great-great-grandfather was a Paragon.”  
  
“And yet your own reputation is admirable. Impeccable, I dare say.”  
  
“Yeah, well, I don't sit back and get cozy just because of who my family was.”  
  
“Nor I,” Dorian agreed - the correct answer, judging by the look of approval on the well-dressed dwarf's face.

“I've got a good feeling about this, Archon Pavus.” He extended a hand and clasped Dorian's wrist firmly as the hall doors were opened for him. “You've got a good head for business. And my wife will be glad to hear you're also an animal lover!”  
  
Although a bit confused by the last statement, Dorian's poise never faltered as he acknowledged his appointment's departure with a nod. The doors shut behind him as he turned back down the row of windows, a frown knotting his handsome brow. What on earth had the man been talking about? There were carvings of serpents and dragons enough in the palace to fill their own gallery, to be sure, but -

He stopped dead in his tracks as it hit him.

Dwarf. _Animal lover_.

“ _Kaffas_ ,” he muttered under his breath, turning on his heel and setting his course for the other side of the building at a breakneck pace. When he reached the Hall of Archons, he threw open the doors, strode down to his own nameplate, and looked up into the massive frame.

Dorian suddenly felt as though all of the blood had drained from his face.  
  
There, above the year of inauguration and family titles, was the portrait featuring Schmooples III and Princess Honeyblossom.  
  
It took a few moments of stunned silence before he found his voice and called for a servant, who appeared at his arm in an instant and stared blankly when questioned about that _thing_ hanging in front of him.  
  
“B-but _you_ insisted on the change, Your Excellency,” he replied, looking puzzled. “You even came to the staff at daybreak to command it.”  
  
_“I_ did?” Dorian frowned deeply. He had no recollection of giving such an order – nor would he have ever done so, not for this travesty – but the poor man seemed genuinely confused. “Daybreak of when, exactly?”  
  
“The day after your coronation, Excellency. That very morning.”  
  
As the words pieced everything together, Dorian groaned inwardly. The dawn following his coronation – when he had still been downing drinks left and right until nearly noon. He had a sneaking suspicion that Bull was somehow responsible, at least for the impetus to do something so idiotic, but that would have to be addressed later.

He dismissed the servant, staring up at his own nug-flanked likeness. At least it was the tamest mischief he had gotten up to while intoxicated, considering the potential for an Archon to do. And it had left a good impression on a highly-needed dwarven contact, which would help him greatly in the coming year.

It wasn't going to stay – no, _absolutely_ not, it would be switched out for the proper one within the hour – but Dorian thought that perhaps, if only a little and only for a moment, that the portrait wasn't quite so horrendous as he'd imagined.

Divine Victoria would still be receiving a strongly-worded letter within the week.

 


End file.
